More Than A Dream
Emma Richmond
Too Much, Too Soon…To the outside world, it looked as though all of Melissa Morland's dreams had come true - she was married to gorgeous Charles Revington, was pregnant with his child and live in a palatial home in France. But Melissa craved the one thing she did not have: her husband's love. Perhaps someday… .Then, in one shattering moment, Charles learned the truth about the night their child was conceived. His anger and disillusionment created chasms impossible to bridge - except perhaps by one small miracle!
More Than A Dream
Emma Richmond
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#ue47eeb00-a931-5925-8b69-ab6efd7a817b)
CHAPTER TWO (#u009fb123-f37c-5e78-9f66-a7fc57d1c225)
CHAPTER THREE (#ua47427d3-a42b-5960-ac5f-2890147b7553)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
‘ALL right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, truly.’
‘Sure you don’t want to come?’
‘Sure,’ Melly confirmed with a smile. ‘Go on, you go; have a good time.’
‘We-ell, all right, if you’re sure.’
‘I am. Go.’
With an answering smile, he kissed her quickly on the mouth, grabbed his car keys, and left.
So punctilious, so polite, so eager to be away. With no one now to see, the shadows returned to her lovely amber eyes. Getting to her feet, she walked across to the window in order to watch his slim, elegant figure stride from the house; to note the casual way he pushed back his dark hair before climbing behind the wheel of his beloved XJS, and continue to watch as he roared off down the drive. Charles. Her husband. The man she adored to the point of insanity. The man who did not love her. Did he have any idea at all, she wondered, what his kisses did to her? How she stored them up like a miser? No, she doubted he ever gave them a thought. With a rather wry, sad little smile, she smoothed her palm gently over the burgeoning swell of her stomach.
Charles, whom she had comforted on the death of his closest friend in a yachting accident. Charles, who had made love to her in his anguish and pain, and then married her when he’d discovered she was pregnant. Charles, whom she had loved since the age of ten, but who would never have considered marrying her had it not been for the baby.
With a long sigh, she drew the heavy brocade curtains across the window before returning to the large leather armchair drawn up before the fire. Sitting awkwardly, she tucked her legs beneath her. Charles’s chair, which she had, to his amusement, adopted as her own. Her eyes on the dried flowers in the empty fireplace, she saw only Charles. Visualised him parking outside the casino, striding in, grinning at his friends and acquaintances. Relaxed, casual, elegant. Adored. A man liked by women; envied by men. A man who had probably forgotten all about her, she thought with another little smile. A care-for-nobody... No, that wasn’t true, that was just the impression he liked to give, a mask he showed the world. Why, she did not know, only that it was true. Because he thought nobody cared for him? Perhaps, but what she did know was that there was a great deal more to Charles than met the eye. Or was she interpreting facts to suit herself? Because she wanted to believe he was something he wasn’t? Because he was attractive, with a wicked charm, and because she had always liked him, had she made him the misunderstood hero? Assumed his parents were tyrants because they had disowned him? Yet wasn’t it likely that his parents had known him better than anyone? And, working on that assumption, wasn’t it possible that it was not Charles who had been misunderstood, but his parents? Recalling to mind their prim mouths, their moralistic outlook, she shook her head. No, she would trust in Charles. And don’t we all believe what we want to believe? she mocked herself. You no less than anyone else? Yet, even with the doubts, would she have changed anything that had happened these last few months? No. He would probably never love her as she longed to be loved, but he liked her, and, working on the principle that a few slices were better than no bread, she was probably as content as she would ever be.
He would care for her, and the child when it was born, but would he ever again share her bed? Ever again hold her close in his arms, when, even in his pain over the loss of his friend, he had proved himself a lover to surpass all others? She did not know, but she had made her bed, and now must lie on it.
Reaching out her hand, she tugged the little bell pull. It never failed to amuse her, the pretentiousness of it. Châtelaine. Of what? A small house that had no need of a butler, but had one all the same? Not, perhaps, in the image usually called to mind, but certainly quiet, mostly unobtrusive, and always elegantly attired. It was not a role, she often thought, that came naturally to him.
Entering quietly, he gave a small bow. ‘Bonsoir, madame,’ he said with marvellous dignity, which was slightly spoilt by the hint of humour in his dark eyes.
‘Bonsoir, Jean-Marc.’ They had seen each other not fifteen minutes previously, and yet they always went through the same ritual. The same polite exchange. He was in his late fifties, she knew, but behaved as though he were seventy at least and a family retainer of long standing. He was slightly stocky, a little shorter than Charles, very French-looking, with dark hair and pale skin. He tried to give the very misleading impression of being aloof, and of never being hurried. Melly doubted either was true.
Charles had won him, along with the house, in a poker game, or so he said. Melly wasn’t sure she believed him.
‘Je suis fatigué, Jean-Marc...’
‘Madame wishes to retire?’
‘Jean-Marc! How am I ever going to learn to speak French properly if everyone persists in practising their English on me?’
With that wonderful Gallic shrug that was so difficult to imitate, and a downturning of his mobile mouth, he spread his hands in helpless enquiry.
With an infectious little chuckle, she nodded. ‘Yes, I wish to retire.’ Uncoiling herself, she stood and stretched. Of medium height, her once slim, almost boyish figure now nicely rounded, she lowered her arms and gave her gentle smile. Pushing the long brown curly hair away from her face, she asked hopefully, ‘Hot milk?’
‘Hot milk,’ he confirmed with a look of disgust for her choice of beverage. ‘I will bring it up to madame in—fifteen minutes?’
‘Fifteen minutes will be fine. Goodnight, Jean-Marc.’
‘Bonsoir, madame.’
Shaking her head at him, she went up to her room.
The milk was duly brought, and duly drunk. With a last smile for Jean-Marc as he left with the tray holding her empty glass, she settled herself in the large bed. But not to sleep. Or not until she heard Charles come in.
When she heard his quiet footstep on the stairs at just gone two she turned over and slept, which was why, when she woke in the morning, she still felt tired. She could, of course, have gone back to sleep. She didn’t choose to. She always made a point of breakfasting with her husband. Even though he rarely returned from the casino, where he was one of the partners, before three, he was always up by eight o’clock, and now, after three months of marriage, it had become the norm for them to sit down together.
When she entered the dining-room he looked up from his seat at the table, and smiled. He looked delighted to see her. He looked delighted to see everyone. No comfort there.
With a lithe movement he got to his feet, walked to the opposite side of the table and held out her chair. As she sat he dropped a light kiss on the top of her head. ‘Good morning, Melissa.’
‘Bonjour, Charles.’
With a chuckle, he resumed his seat. ‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’
As with Jean-Marc, it was a ritual to be gone through. He poured the hot milk into her cup, with just a dash of coffee. Fresh warm croissants were piled in a snowy napkin in a basket in the centre of the table. There was butter, a selection of confitures, marmalade and honey. Charles reached for her plate, selected a croissant for her and placed it together with butter and honey in front of her. ‘Bon appétit.’
‘Merci. You had a successful evening?’
‘Mm, so-so. Not many in last night.’
‘You played?’
‘No, I wasn’t feeling lucky. I mingled, talked to some people, listened to gossip,’ and, for a moment, his generous mouth firmed. Not tightened; Charles’s expressions were never excessive. He generally appeared relaxed, smiling, contented. It wasn’t true that he was, of course—no one was ever that amiable—but if he had any dark thoughts, emotions, he hid them very well. Which was no doubt why he was such a good poker player. ‘I’ve decided to move the horses to another haras.’
‘But why?’ she asked, puzzled. ‘I thought you were quite happy with the way they were being trained. Heaven knows, you fought hard enough to get them into that particular stable!’
‘Ye-es, but oh, I don’t know, I have a feeling all is not well.’
Knowing better than to mock his ‘feelings’, she asked instead, ‘Where will you place them?’
‘Don’t know; I’ll have to give it more thought.’ With the swift change of subject that was so characteristic of him, he smiled. ‘I also saw Fabienne; she’s invited us to dine tonight. Yes? I accepted for us both. You don’t get out enough—and don’t turn down your mouth, my darling, it’s time you got over this reluctance you have to meet people.’
‘I’m not reluctant to meet people, just...’
‘Just those people who constitute my friends.’
‘No,’ she denied with a frown, ‘that’s not true; it’s just that some of them...’
‘Like Fabienne...’
‘Yes, like Fabienne, make me feel—oh, I don’t know, gauche, unsophisticated. I never know what to say to them.’ Looking up, holding his grey eyes with her own, she added, ‘You’ll be much happier on your own.’
‘Will I?’ he asked with a quizzical smile.
‘Yes. You won’t need to worry about me, make sure I have someone to talk to, understand what’s being said...’ With a little smile and a shrug that was nowhere near as eloquent as Jean-Marc’s, she left her sentence unfinished. But it was true: without her, he would thoroughly enjoy himself. Very gregarious was Charles. He liked meeting people, talking, exchanging ideas, and, although he had never by look or deed intimated that she was a drag on his enjoyment, she suspected he felt restricted by her presence. She had tried to overcome her not dislike, exactly, but discomfort with his smart friends, but she always got the feeling that they were sneering at her. Maybe she was being over-sensitive because of the circumstances of their marriage, but she could never feel quite at ease at these little dinner parties that everyone seemed to give.
‘Nevertheless,’ he said with a subtly different smile that meant he would expect her to go along with his wishes, ‘I would like you to come. David will be there. You like David.’
Yes, she liked David; it was his wife she couldn’t stand, mostly, she admitted, because the wretched Fabienne would persist in drooling all over Charles at every given opportunity. Touching, smiling, stroking, pressing herself against him as though she were irresistible, which she wasn’t, not by any means. She was forty if she was a day and persisted in behaving as though she were sixteen. She seemed to be the violent exception to the rule that French woman were elegant, chic, sexy. Most older women that she had met were far more attractive than the younger set, having achieved that certain confidence and sophistication that wisdom brought, but not the wretched Fabienne, and, for all his perspicacity, Charles didn’t seem to see what other women saw. That she was a troublemaker.
If Melly flatly refused he would still go, and he would say nothing more about it, but the smile would be cooler, the warmth that she needed withdrawn. She didn’t think he knew that he did it, and maybe someone who did not know him very well would not notice. But she would. Forcing herself to smile, she nodded. ‘All right, I’ll come. What time?’
‘Eightish. Thank you. I know it is not easy for you, Melly, but if you do not ever try you will not know...’
‘What I’m missing,’ she finished for him. ‘I know, and I am trying; it’s just that it’s such a different lifestyle to the one I’ve been used to.’
‘British understatement at its best,’ he laughed. ‘Beckford was hardly the Mecca of sophistication.’ Leaning back in his chair, he steepled his fingers under his chin, a smile playing about his mouth. ‘I would dearly love to know what they made of our marriage,’ he mused.
‘Oh, probably that I deserved all I got,’ she said lightly. ‘I mean, what else could one expect, marrying an adventurer?’
‘Is that what they call me? An adventurer?’
‘Mm.’ A no-good adventurer, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. Besides, it wasn’t true.
With every appearance of enjoying the notoriety, he leaned forward and propped his chin in his hand. ‘What else? Black sheep? Rogue? I bet they said, “Ah, that one, he’ll come to no good. Meet a sticky end one day.” Mm, I see by your face that I’m right. Well, it’s possible I will one day fulfil their prophecies, but hopefully not drag you down with me. You deserve better, Melly.’
‘No!’ she said more sharply than she had intended. ‘No,’ she repeated more moderately.
‘Yes,’ he contradicted. ‘If you had not come to Deauville to find your grandfather’s grave; if—’
‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,’ she cut in firmly, because they both knew that wasn’t why she had come. Charles might, for the sake of harmony, pretend to believe it, but she had always thought that he suspected otherwise. Always suspected that he was treading carefully, as she was, in order to make the marriage work. Holding his eyes, she forced herself to smile. ‘You didn’t coerce me. I didn’t have to—comfort you that day. And if I had denied your paternity...’
‘Ah, but you didn’t, God knows why. Anyone less worthy to be a father would be hard to find. Anyone less worthy to be a husband... And yet, if you hadn’t admitted it, if I had found out later that you were carrying my child...’
He would have been angry? Yes, she knew he would have been, and was sometimes very surprised by how responsible he seemed to feel. She desperately wished they could have spoken about it, discussed it, but because of her own feelings of guilt it always seemed impossible. And yet perhaps, after all, it was safer not to.
‘How would you have found out?’ she queried with a lightness she did not feel. ‘You no longer had ties with Beckford, and as far as you knew I could have had any number of boyfriends, any one of whom could have been the father...’
‘Maybe; water under the bridge now...’ With an odd laugh, he straightened. ‘Not exactly your normal run-of-the-mill husband, am I?’
‘No,’ she agreed with a forced smile, ‘but then, run-of-the-mill might be a bit boring, don’t you think?’
‘And wouldn’t you, if you were honest, not wish for boring now and again?’ he asked whimsically. ‘Like knowing where I was at nights? Or even days, come to that...?’
‘But then you would never have won this house at poker; I would never have met Jean-Marc. Would never have ogled the rich and famous at the American Film Festival...’
‘Ah, now, be fair, you could have ogled them any time. They hold the festival here every year.’
‘But I couldn’t have ogled them as a guest!’ she insisted. ‘Couldn’t have ogled them from the arm of the most sought-after bachelor around. Anyway, I quite like being the wife of racehorse owner; the wife of a casino partner, famous yachtsman...’
‘Hardly famous,’ he derided, his mouth turned down at the corners.
‘Well known, then,’ she substituted. Staring at him, examining that strong, attractive face as he gazed pensively at the table, she wondered how much he was regretting it. Had he taken one too many gambles and lost? Had he been expecting her to refuse his proposal? He would never say, even if she asked, yet she knew this wasn’t the lifestyle he had planned for himself. He’d been quite honest about it, about never intending to marry. So really he was someone else who had to lie in a bed of their own making. ‘You lost more than I ever could,’ she added quietly in a foolish desire to be reassured. ‘Your freedom to choose.’
Raising his eyes, and shaking off whatever thoughts he had been thinking, he smiled. ‘Choose what? Women? Women were never that important to me, Melly, despite what the gossips say. I like them, enjoy their company, and I don’t say I’ve never bedded them,’ he added with his engaging grin, ‘but not to the degree those same gossips would have you believe, and the truth of the matter is I don’t feel tied. I enjoy being married to you, didn’t you know that?’ he queried lightly.
‘Do you?’ she smiled, knowing it for the lie it was.
‘Yes, of course. It’s also an excuse I can use when I want to leave somewhere that bores me; an excuse for importuning women...’ With a laugh that mocked himself, he added more seriously, ‘No, the only regret I have is that I might hurt you. I’m on a course of self-destruction, Melly, always have been, you know that. I seem to have this need for danger; to pit my wits against the world. Constantly test my abilities. A need to win... I’ll make the best provision I can for you and the child, and then if anything happens...’ With a little shrug, his mood changed again. ‘What shall we do today? Choose the pram?’
Shaking off her own feeling of despondency that his words had brought, she shook her head. ‘No, mustn’t tempt fate. I won’t choose the pram, or cot, or anything until the last month...’
‘But that’s ages!’ he protested.
‘Only eight weeks—it will soon go.’
‘I suppose. But I want to do things!’ he exclaimed comically. ‘Get the nursery ready! Choose outfits for him, it, her...’
‘Designer?’ she asked with a teasing grin.
‘Of course designer!’ Looking down, he traced an invisible pattern on the tablecloth. ‘It frightens me, Melly,’ he confessed quietly. ‘Being a father. I can’t picture it. Don’t know how I will be.’
‘I do,’ she said softly. ‘You’ll be protective, caring—and fun. What more could a child ask?’
‘For his father to be there, I should think!’ With an abrupt move that took her by surprise, he got to his feet. ‘I have to go and see someone about the horses. I’ll be back in an hour or two; we’ll go out then.’ Almost at the door, he halted. Turning, he regarded her with a frown. ‘Don’t you have to go to the clinic today?’
‘Mm, but not till two.’
‘OK, I’ll be back well before that. See you later.’ And, with that, he was gone.
Abandoning her attempt to eat, she leaned back and gave an unhappy sigh. Oh, Charles. It was getting harder and harder to appear relaxed, friendly—for him, too, she suspected—but if any intensity was to creep into her voice, any hint of how she felt, she would drive him away. He would feel threatened, and he would leave. She had always known that; she just had not known how desperately hard it would be—or had not wanted to admit it, yet she must have suspected how doomed it would be, with both of them pretending to be something they weren’t.
Clenching her hands tight on the napkin, she took slow, deep breaths to let out the tension that his mood had brought. Self-destruction... He would do the craziest things on a seeming whim: race his yacht; ski down routes that were marked hazardous; stake a fortune on the turn of a card... And she did not know why, why he had this need to push himself to the limits, punish himself. It wasn’t because of Laurent’s death, or for making her pregnant; his course of destruction had started long before those two events. Was it because of his upbringing? Because of Beckford? They both had their share of secrets. She didn’t know his, and, hopefully, he would never find out hers, for, although he suspected that their meeting wasn’t one of those odd coincidences that occurred from time to time, he didn’t know. Not for certain, not that she had known he was here, and that her desire to visit her grandfather’s grave had just been an excuse. A reason for being in the same place as Charles.
Throwing down her napkin, she got awkwardly to her feet and wandered out on to the small terrace. Settling herself in the cushioned chair that Jean-Marc always put out for her, she gazed out over the town spread below.
Charles. He’d coloured her life, given it magic, and every other man paled into insignificance beside him. He was her fantasy, her dream come true. And he had no idea—at least, she hoped he didn’t, hoped that he thought she regarded him, as he did her, as an old and valued childhood friend. So, always there must be this need to keep the reins loose, never give him reason to feel trapped, because, without him, life quite simply would not be worth living. She needed him near, and he needed to be free, like a wild horse, but if she was careful, and clever, perhaps he would always come back.
Her eyes unfocused, she thought back to that day over six months before when they had met near the harbour. Correction: when she had engineered the meeting. Although, as in all things, fate had played its part. Had, on that one occasion, played into her hands. And if he found out? No, she thought with a little shudder, he must never find out. He would never understand obsession.
CHAPTER TWO
THERE had been grey skies, a fine drizzle, the day Melly had arrived in France. The overnight ferry had been crowded and she had been glad to reach the relative freedom of the roads. The drive to the Hotel du Golf in Deauville had been without incident, and after unpacking she had wasted no time in gaining directions to the Military Cemetery from the desk clerk. First things first. Set up the alibi.
It was only a five-minute drive from the hotel. A winding road, empty of traffic, then along a small unmarked track, tucked away behind some trees. Isolated. Forgotten? No, not forgotten. All the war graves had been carefully tended. The grass cut.
Shrugging into her slicker, pulling the hood over her dark hair, she climbed from the car. A fitting day for visiting a grave, she thought, with the heavens crying, and guilt was her companion that day, because grandfather’s grave was only an excuse. Her father had drawn her a little map, which she had memorised, and, with that in mind, she walked straight to his grave.
Huddling more warmly into her slicker, she gazed before her. Yet, even with her eyes on the grey stone cross, she saw only Charles. Or, said the French way, ‘Sharle’. With a small smile, she savoured the name on her tongue. Sharle. No, not here, now; that was a betrayal of them all.
Focusing once more on the memorial stone, she conjured up an image of her grandfather. A face seen only in photographs. A black and white image of a young man that bore a striking resemblance to herself. Mid-brown curly hair, amber eyes with the same wistful expression. And he deserved far more of her attention than she was giving him. He had died for king and country, died so that future generations could be free, and here she was, over forty years later, giving him barely one tenth of her attention.
Captain David Morland. Aged thirty-two. Liberator.
June 6, 1944
Simple, poignant—and said nothing. How had it really been? Had death come swiftly, on silent wings? Or had it been resisted? Had he known? Or been unaware? There was no one to tell her now. Above the simple inscription was a carving of his regimental badge and his number. Not much as a testament to thirty-two years of life. And yet it was more than some had. Looking round her, at the bleak little cemetery, she shivered and began to move slowly along the row. So young, so little of life had been lived, and she began to silently mouth the names, as though it was important that someone, somewhere, remembered them. Not as a mass, but as individuals.
Most were from the First World War, only a few from the Second. Some were unknown. And in the corner, isolated, were the German war graves. No poignant little messages on these, no soft remembered phrase, just the name and date of death. Feeling depressed, she turned to go back through the little gate. Duty done. The reason for her trip to France. Liar. With a long sigh, she went back to the car.
Where was Charles now? Still in Deauville? And did she really expect to see him? Yes; the answer had to be yes. Not only expected, but needed. Needed to cure herself of this ridiculous infatuation, because surely that must be what it was? All these years of loving him, wanting him, unable to have a relationship with any other man because it was not him. Yet she had tried. Lord knew, she had tried. Accepted invitations from other boys, men, but none of them had had his smile, his warmth, that underlying streak of ruthlessness that sometimes showed in his grey eyes. The strength that could never be disguised. So foolish, irrational—and shaming. Like a schoolgirl languishing after a pop star, an idol. A man who probably rarely gave her a thought, and, if he did, would have been astonished—no, incredulous—had he known of her obsession. Her fantasy.
Putting the car in gear, she drove carefully along the bumpy track and down into the centre of town. People with obsessions always planned well in advance. She had carefully scrutinised the town map and therefore knew exactly where the harbour was. Knew, or at least had been told, that that was where Charles moored his yacht.
Finding the marina without difficulty, she parked, and then quickly scanned the line of expensive toys as they bobbed gently, swayed, curtsied, as if in mockery. And there it was, exactly like the photograph she had seen in the magazine at home. The Wanderer. Elegant, racy, exciting—like the man who stood on deck. An unexpected bonus, and she felt the familiar warmth course through her as she stared at dark hair ruffled by the breeze; at strong, tanned arms that were raised as he fiddled with something on the mast; at jeans-clad legs, astride to keep his balance. Slim, elegant, exciting. Charles Revington.
She stared at him for a long time, felt the jolt she always felt; felt her heart race, swell, and she wanted to do something incredibly juvenile, such as walk past him in the hope that he might see her.
Wrenching her eyes away, she was disgusted by her stupidity. And it was stupid, and childish, and hopeless. Climbing from the car, she quickly locked it, and, resolutely turning her back, she began to walk along the wooden promenade that divided the long sandy beach from the bathing huts.
‘Hey! Melly! Hang on!’
If you wanted something badly enough you would get it. Closing her eyes tight for a moment, she quickened her step, pretended she had not heard the urgent shout. Staring blindly at the wooden boards before her, she fought for composure. Fool. Stop, be casual. I can’t. The longing to see him and the need to escape were equally powerful. She should never have come. And yet, if it was he who chased after her, it would look, wouldn’t it, as though their meeting was accidental?
The sound of footsteps behind her did not diminish, and it was almost a relief when her arm was caught and she was brought to a halt. Swinging round in feigned surprise, she stared up into the face of the man she had loved since she was a child.
Laughing grey eyes looked back. A wide smile stretched the firm tanned skin of his face. ‘I would have felt the most awful fool if it hadn’t been you! What on earth is my innocent little friend doing in this den of iniquity?’ he asked with that engaging grin that had been haunting her for most of her twenty-five years.
‘Oh, this and that,’ she managed simply. Surprised, after all, at how easy it was, she smiled. Her heart might be racing, her pulse erratic, but, to her intense relief, she sounded ordinary, normal. ‘Hello, Charles.’
‘”Hello, Charles,”’ he mimicked lightly. ‘So casual, Melly? You don’t even sound surprised.’
Cursing herself for not at least pretending, she fabricated. ‘Not surprised, no; more—disbelieving, I think. I certainly didn’t expect to see anyone I knew.’
‘No,’ he agreed gently, ‘that’s what’s so nice about travelling. One never knows who one will bump into.’ And, sounding as though he really meant it, he added, ‘It’s really good to see you.’ His eyes full of devilish laughter, he grasped her shoulders and kissed her smoothly on each cheek, then before she could register the feel of him, the warmth, he steered her towards the only nearby café that was open. In the summer, she guessed, the wide glass panels would be pushed back, and tables and chairs would be placed outside, but today, in early April, and with a cold east wind blowing, they were mostly all closed and shuttered.
Hooking a chair out with his foot, he pushed her gently into the seat before taking the chair opposite. Summoning the waiter with an ease that she envied, he quirked an eyebrow in query. ‘Coffee?’
‘Please, white.’
‘Deux cafés-crème, s’il vous plaît.’
‘Grands? Petits?’ the waiter asked smoothly.
‘Grands, merci.’
As soon as the waiter had departed to execute their order, he continued, ‘So what brings you to Deauville? Not the racing,’ he teased, ‘that doesn’t start till August. The golf? The sailing? The casino?’
Settling back in her chair, not quite sure she believed this was happening, and that Charles was actually sitting opposite her, a quizzical expression on his strong face, she toyed idly with a sugar wrapper someone had left on the table. Even though hope had been warring with expectancy, she still found it hard to believe that her fantasising, her irrational hopes, were being realised. Glancing up at him, she felt faint. ‘Not the casino, no. The war graves.’
‘The war... Oh.’ With a nod of understanding, he slapped the table. ‘Of course, your grandfather. You’re looking for his grave?’ Noting her astonishment, he smiled. ‘I remember your father once telling me that his father had fought and died in Normandy during the D-Day landings. Any luck?’
‘Yes. I knew, of course, that it was the Military Cemetery at Tourgeville; it was just a question of finding it. The authorities were very helpful when I contacted them in England—they even offered to take me there.’
‘But you wanted to go alone,’ he put in understandingly.
‘Yes. I’ve just come from there.’
‘Which is why you’re looking so pensive,’ he exclaimed softly, ‘and insensitive Charles Revington has just trampled all over your feelings with his size-nine boots. I’m sorry.’
With a renewed stab of guilt, because she hadn’t been feeling any of the emotions he expected of her, she protested softly, ‘No need to be sorry, and insensitive is the last thing I’d call you. I was just feeling a little sad, and thoughtful, I suppose.’
With a gentle hand he removed the wrapper from her fingers, then lifted them to his mouth and kissed the tips. ‘Triste. That’s what the French would say. Have you been to look at the landing beaches? Sword, Juno, Gold, Omaha?’
‘No, not yet.’ No need to tell him that she had only arrived that morning.
‘You should make the time. They’re worth seeing, and the American Cemetery in Saint Laurent. It will bring a lump to your throat. So many crosses, so many dead.’
‘Yes, I will.’ With a little smile for the waiter, and a hesitant, ‘Merci,’ she gratefully turned her attention to putting sugar in her coffee and stirring it. He was too near, too charming, too much the man, and she could think of nothing to say, nothing that would interest him. From longing for the chance to see him, talk to him, now that the moment was here she felt gauche, shy, uninteresting.
‘You’re on your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then the least I can do is buy you dinner...’
‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed in sudden panic. ‘Truly, you don’t need to do that.’
‘I know I don’t,’ he agreed with another teasing smile, ‘but I would like to. You can tell me all that’s been happening at home. You still live in Beckford? That good old hotbed of gossip?’
Feeling unworldly and suburban, she gave a wry smile and nodded.
‘Still at home?’ he teased.
Wishing she could invent a worldly lifestyle for herself, suddenly transpose into an exciting, intriguing companion, she gave another reluctant nod. ‘Very unenterprising of me, I know, but, well, I’m quite happy there.’
‘No need to sound defensive, or apologetic,’ he said gently, ‘we can’t all be adventurers.’ With a wry smile of his own, he picked up his cup. ‘Still the wicked one, am I?’ he queried with a crooked grin.
‘Fraid so. Unredeemable. They’re all just waiting for your sticky end so that they can say “I told you so” to each other.’ Studying him while his attention was elsewhere, she wondered if he minded. He didn’t look as though he did, but then, Charles never looked anything but amused. It had been nearly fifteen years since he had actually lived in the village, and, although she had seen him from time to time, when he had made a flying visit to Beckford for her brother’s funeral, returned quite often to see old friends, it had been over a year since she had last seen him, and then only briefly, and from a distance, which perhaps was why she had felt this overwhelming need to see him now. ‘You no longer go back?’ She knew very well he didn’t, knew that his old friends had moved away, but she didn’t want him to know that she knew. Didn’t want him to know of her infatuation. Her obsessive interest in his affairs.
Returning his attention to her, he gave a faint smile and shook his head. ‘Still writing your children’s books?’
‘Yes, still doing them.’
‘No more yearnings to be a nurse?’ he asked with a quizzical smile.
‘No,’ she denied with a faint grin as she remembered that youthful ambition, remembered his teasing.
‘Well, if determination should win any prizes you’d get the big one. Still unpublished?’
‘No,’ she denied with a touch of pride. ‘I am now, well, if not exactly rich and famous, at least being sold.’
Looking genuinely pleased, he exclaimed, ‘Congratulations! What name do you write under? Would I have heard of you?’
Amused, she shook her head. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Tell me anyway,’ he persuaded gently, and as though he really was interested. But then, that was part of his charm, he always appeared interested in other people’s doings.
Knowing he would make the connection, she confessed reluctantly, ‘Donny.’
‘Ah.’ With a sympathetic nod, he said, ‘For your brother.’
‘Yes.’
‘Your parents have come to terms with it now?’
‘On the surface perhaps, but inside? No, not really,’ she said with rather haunting sadness.
‘Is that why you stayed at home?’ he asked gently.
‘Partly, I suppose. Whenever I made noises about leaving, finding a flat, they didn’t exactly say anything, but they looked so hurt that I didn’t have the heart to persist.’
‘Kind Melissa.’
With a little shrug, she finished her coffee. She wasn’t sure kind came into it. Cowardice perhaps, or guilt. Not that she really had anything to feel guilty for, and yet, whenever she had broached the subject about leaving, guilt was what they had made her feel. And if she had left, lived a different sort of life, would she have got over this need for Charles? And yet, to be honest, mostly, she didn’t feel a desperate need to try her wings elsewhere, just now and again when she began to feel stifled by the feelings of responsibility her parents engendered in her. There was also the question of money. Due to the fact that her father had lost all interest in his business when Donny had died, their income now was quite small, and without her contribution they would have found it hard to manage. So she stayed, and if her brother’s ghost was part of the package, well, it was an amiable ghost, not one that ever threatened her peace of mind. She could think of him now with love and affection, not the aching pain that his death had brought over ten years before. Such a silly death, such a wasteful, foolish way to die, to trip and knock yourself out and then drown in a puddle barely big enough to wet your shoes.
Pushing the memories aside, she asked lightly, ‘So what are you up to these days? Apart from being an adventurer, that is?’
‘Oh, this and that,’ he dismissed. ‘I get by.’
She could see that, she thought wryly, if the sailing jacket he was wearing was anything to go by. That certainly hadn’t come from Woolworths. But any chance to probe further was thwarted by the appearance of a woman who seemed vaguely familiar. She was tall, and fair, and very, very attractive, and her face was full of laughter and lively curiosity as she stared at Melly through the window behind Charles. Putting a finger to her lips to indicate silence, she slipped in through the door, tiptoed across to the table, and then put both hands over Charles’s eyes.
Grasping her wrists in his strong hands, he removed them and turned to peer upwards, then grinned. ‘Bonjour, madame,’ he greeted lightly.
‘I’ll give you “bonjour”! You are a wretched, wretched man, Charles! Where have you been? And why didn’t you come to my party?’
‘I was busy,’ he drawled laconically, and Melly got the definite feeling that those narrowed grey eyes held a warning. For the woman not to presume, perhaps? This was a part of him that she had never seen, and just for a moment she felt a little frisson of fear at her temerity in seeking him out. He was not a boy, but a man of the world, sophisticated, wealthy. In his own setting he was vastly different from her childhood friend.
‘Yes, and I can imagine what with!’ the woman laughed, bringing Melly back to the present with a start.
‘I’m sure you can.’
With a comical grimace, and a little smile for Melly, she hurried to rejoin her companions outside.
What had he been busy with? Melly wondered as she followed the elegant blonde’s progress with her eyes. Women? His yacht? Not something she could ask. Finally turning back to face him, she observed, ‘She looks a bit like the actress...’
‘Alison Marks,’ he put in coolly. ‘Yes. She is.’
‘Hm,’ she offered ruefully. ‘You move in exalted circles.’
‘Exalted?’ he queried thoughtfully. ‘No, they’re just ordinary people. Quite nice, some of them. You should come back in September; they’re all here then for the film festival.’ Seeing her puzzlement, he clarified, ‘The American Film Festival. It’s held in Deauville each year. Want to go? I’ll get tickets for you if you like.’
‘Me? Good heavens, no!’ she denied without really thinking about it.
‘Sure? I can get you an invite. Rub shoulders with the rich and famous... No, perhaps not,’ he added softly with a little shake of his head. ‘A lamb among lions...’ With another, more genuine smile, he continued, ‘It would probably bore you to tears. Not your sort of people, Melly. All full of their own egos.’
Which, of course, perversely, made her want to change her mind, a fact he very well knew, judging by the twinkle in his eyes.
The crashing open of the door made them both turn. A man with grey hair and a weatherbeaten face was standing in the opening, and he stared at Charles with an expression of almost despair on his face.
‘Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?’ Charles queried with a frown.
A burst of French issued from the other man, and the only word Melly caught was a name, Laurent.
Shoving his chair back, Charles hurried across to the man standing agitatedly in the doorway, and Melly didn’t need to be able to understand French to know that Charles was demanding details of whatever it was that had happened.
Quickly finding some francs, she put them on the table to pay for the coffee, then, pushing her own chair back, she hurried to join the two men who were striding urgently back towards the harbour. Something was wrong, that was obvious, but what?
There was a large knot of people on the quay, all talking, obviously discussing whatever it was that had occurred, and she watched Charles and his companion stride up to some sort of official and begin to question him. She saw him nod, then shove his hands into his pockets and look out towards the open sea.
She could have gone away then, left quietly, without fuss, because she knew he’d forgotten all about her, but she didn’t want to go away, didn’t want to leave. Moving to stand beside him, she asked hesitantly, ‘Is something wrong?’
Snapping his head round, and then staring at her as though he wasn’t sure who she was, he gave a long shudder, and with an obvious effort focused his attention on her.
‘Melly. Oh, hell, I’m sorry...’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, tell me what’s happened.’
‘It’s Laurent—well, Laurent’s yacht, at any rate; apparently a motor cruiser went into her side. I don’t know any details; the rescue launch has gone out...’ Breaking off, he continued, more to himself than her, ‘He’ll be all right. More lives than a cat...’ And then he closed his eyes, as if he was silently praying.
‘Charles,’ his companion said quietly and, grasping his arm, drew his attention to the rescue launch that was slowly entering the harbour. Glancing at Charles’s face, she saw hope warring with bleak presentiment. Averting her eyes, she too stared at the launch as it slowly motored to the quayside.
A man and a woman were escorted off first, the woman weeping hysterically, the man white and obviously shaken. No one else, only the blue uniformed figures. Charles and his companion walked towards the man who was obviously in charge. She saw him shake his head.
Feeling helpless, and useless, she watched as a white-shrouded form was stretchered up and put carefully on the cobbles. Saw Charles kneel and gently pull back the covering to stare down at, presumably, the face of his friend, and then stand helplessly by as the stretcher was picked up and carried to the waiting ambulance. The other man accompanied it, leaving Charles looking lost and anguished, unbearably hurt.
Her heart aching for him, she walked back to his side. Slipping her hand into his arm, she held it warmly against her.
‘I should have gone with him,’ he said bleakly. ‘I was intending to, only I wanted to finish fixing something on Wanderer. If I’d been with him...’
‘If you’d gone with him,’ she said gently, ‘it might have been you.’
‘You think that matters? No, Melly, it wouldn’t have mattered at all. No loss to anyone. But Laurent... Oh, God.’ Turning his head, and obviously becoming aware of the knots of people still talking, speculating, he clenched his teeth and eyes tight for a moment, then, grasping her hand, he said harshly, ‘Let’s get out of here before the Press arrive!’
Pulling her along the sandy track and across the main road towards a block of flats, he pushed through the main entrance door and into a waiting lift. Pressing the button for the third floor, he kept his face resolutely turned to one side, away from her, until the lift halted and the door slid open.
Melly had just time enough to notice that the landing was covered with expensive green carpet, the walls painted cream, before she was tugged along to a door at the end. Flat three hundred and one. Charles inserted his key and, still grasping her hand, pulled her inside. Releasing her, he strode along the tiny hall and into a door at the end. Following slowly, she watched him push open the french windows of the large square lounge and step out on to the balcony for a brief moment. Then, still without speaking, he came inside and made for the bar set up in one corner.
Feeling totally inadequate, and uncertain what to do for the best, she investigated the kitchen and made coffee and sandwiches, neither of which Charles touched, but just refilled his glass every time it was empty and stood staring out over the harbour. Knowing there was nothing she could say to alleviate his suffering, she thought it was probably best to allow him to come to terms with it in his own way. Curling up in the armchair, she watched and waited, in case he should need something. Anything. A shoulder to lean on, cry on. Someone to hold.
As the sky gradually purpled, then blackened, he gave a long sigh and gently pushed the windows to. Turning, he stared at her for a moment before walking, quite steadily, across to the standard lamp and switching it on.
‘Thank you,’ he said simply. ‘I’ll be all right.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed helplessly.
Walking across to the cream leather sofa, he sat, still nursing his glass, and began to talk. All about Laurent, their friendship, the things they had done together. ‘He was my friend,’ he concluded quietly. ‘My very good friend.’ A look of such agony crossed his face that Melly felt tears start to her eyes. Placing his glass carefully on the floor, he hunched over, his head on his knees. Without stopping to think, she rose quickly, and sat beside him. Putting her arms round him, she held him close, laid her head against his and rocked him silently.
‘Don’t go,’ he said thickly.
‘No, I’ll be here. As long as you need me to stay, I’ll be here.’
They had sat for a long time like that, until, eventually, she had helped him into his bedroom, helped him undress, and had then lain beside him in silent comfort.
* * *
‘Madame? Madame!’
With a little start, she blinked, turning her head, and stared rather blankly at Jean-Marc.
‘It is the telephone, madame. Your mother.’
‘Mother? Oh, right, thank you.’
Feeling disorientated and muzzy, she got reluctantly to her feet. Memories of that night spent with Charles remained vivid in her mind and, for a moment, she was resentful at having to put them aside. Memories of his lovemaking would probably be all she ever had. All she maybe deserved, because she had made a conscious decision to stay with him that night. It hadn’t only been the action of a friend; it had also been a selfish desire to be near him. With a little sad sigh, she followed Jean-Marc inside.
CHAPTER THREE
AFTER a really rather pointless conversation with her mother, and reassuring her that she felt fine, and yes, would let her know the results of her scan, Melly replaced the receiver. Poor mother, stuck over in England while her one remaining, and very pregnant, chick lived in France. She was still trying to persuade Melly to go to England to have the baby. She didn’t trust the French; didn’t think they had decent hospitals; thought the food was bad for her; and, as always, Melly soothed her, explained yet again that French hospitals were probably better than English ones; that the food was fine, didn’t upset her, knowing full well that her mother’s anti-French feelings were just an excuse. It was Charles she didn’t trust. She had also been angling for another invitation, and, naughtily, Melly had pretended not to notice. She had already been out twice, and Melly didn’t think Charles would be too pleased at another visit quite so soon. Neither, if she was honest, would she. Mother would fuss, organise, send her to bed; make her put her feet up; and would again comment on the fact that she and Charles didn’t share a room. And her poor father, who Mother always insisted accompany her, would wander round, looking lost and uncomfortable, fervently wishing he could go home and back to his small engineering workshop where he could hide from the world.
‘Mother?’ Charles queried humorously from behind her.
Turning in surprise, she smiled. ‘Yes. I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘When’s she coming?’ he asked with rueful acceptance.
‘She isn’t. Or, at least, not yet...’ Laughing, she added, ‘It’s all right, you can say it!’
‘Moi?’ he asked with a grin. ‘I’m much too polite. However...’
‘Quite.’ Still smiling, she queried, ‘Have any luck in finding a new stable?’
With a friendly arm round her shoulder, he steered her into the lounge and seated her on the sofa before collapsing beside her. ‘No, the owner and I had a long talk, and I decided, after much deliberation, to leave them where they are.’
‘Because?’ she asked lightly. She knew this husband of hers well enough to know that, if the owner had a problem, financial or otherwise, and unloaded it on to Charles, Charles would immediately set about finding a solution, and therefore wouldn’t dream of adding to his troubles by taking his horses away. Unless of course it was the owner’s mismanagement, or laziness, that had created the problem; then it would have been a very different story.
‘Oh,’ he dismissed, ‘he’s had one or two problems... Why are you laughing?’
‘No reason,’ she denied with a fond smile, ‘go on.’
‘Nothing to go on with. I just decided to leave them with him for the time being. Anyway, with the racing season finished, there’s no immediate hurry. So, want to go out for lunch before your hospital appointment?’
Knowing it was what he wanted, she nodded. ‘Love to. Where shall we go?’
‘Ciros?’
‘Great. Will we get in?’ She knew very well that, with the town still crammed to capacity after the film festival, restaurant bookings were like gold dust.
‘Of course.’
‘Of course,’ she laughed, and wondered not for the first time what levers he used in order to get a table when no one else could. ‘I’ll go and get ready.’
They were welcomed as Charles was welcomed everywhere, with delight, with a grin and with excellent service. He explained to the head waiter that she was to have a scan that afternoon, and would therefore need to drink at least one and a half pints of liquid. Not an eyelid was batted, not a comment made, and she was smilingly presented with a large carafe of water, and one of orange juice. Charles watched her with smiling concern as she battled to drink the required amount without once going to the ladies’.
‘God, I’m glad I’m not a woman!’ he exclaimed fervently when they were ready to leave. ‘Is it really necessary to drink all that?’
‘So they say. Apparently the scan won’t work properly otherwise. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. I did ask,’ she added comically, ‘but I didn’t understand the answer.’
Hugging her to his side, he kept his arm round her as he escorted her back to the car.
* * *
The scan itself went off without difficulty; it was when she returned to the reception desk for her card, after a hasty visit to the ladies’, that the troubles began.
‘Ah, Madame Revington,’ the receptionist said, and then, presumably remembering that Melly was English, proudly displayed her talent in that direction. ‘Dr Lafage,’ she enunciated slowly, ‘he is wishing to see you. Oui?’ she asked triumphantly.
‘Oui, très bien,’ Melly complimented. ‘Where? And, more importantly, why?’ she asked lightly. ‘I didn’t have to see him before.’ Registering the woman’s total incomprehension, she gave a wry smile, and because she couldn’t be bothered to dredge up her shaky French she turned to Charles, and silently asked him to translate for her. Which he did with a fluency she envied. He would only intercede if she asked, because he said the only way for her to learn the language fluently was to practise on every conceivable occasion. Which was true, she thought wryly, but it made life very complicated sometimes.
‘She doesn’t know why,’ Charles informed her with a smile. ‘Probably just routine.’ Thanking the receptionist, he collected Melly’s notes and, with a hand solicitously beneath her elbow, escorted her down to the antenatal clinic.
Dr Lafage saw them straight away. Another one who spoke English, which only went to emphasise how lazy the English were at learning foreign languages.
‘Madame, m’sieu,’ he smiled, ‘please be seated. Now, we would like for you to go on the monitor. Yes? You have been on it before, I understand.’ Consulting the notes that Charles had given him, he nodded. ‘Yes, last month.’ Leaning back in his chair, he beamed at her. ‘Tell me how you are feeling. You have backache, perhaps? Headaches?’
‘No. Cramp sometimes, heartburn; other that that, I feel fine.’
‘No dizziness? Faintness?’
‘No.’
‘Bien. You are eating properly?’
‘Yes.’
‘Taking the tablets for the iron and vitamin?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed a little impatiently. ‘Is there some problem?’
‘Well, we hope not. Are almost sure not, but...’
Beginning to feel more and more alarmed, she sought Charles’s hand and then held it tight. ‘But?’
With a long sigh, he explained, ‘Your blood-pressure is a little high—nothing to get alarmed about, just a little higher than we would like. And it might be best if we had you in for a few days, just to be on the side of safe...’
‘But if it’s only a little bit high...’
‘It is true, it is not a matter for too much concern, but we would like for you to rest.’
‘I do rest! And, if I need to rest more, I will!’ she insisted. Her face reflecting her worry, she asked faintly, ‘There’s nothing wrong with the baby, is there?’
‘Non! Non, the baby is fine...’
‘Then why? If the baby is fine...’
‘It is fine; please, you must not get distressed. It is only that we have the minor concern that it is small, not growing as fast as we would like. There is nothing to worry about, but we would like to put you on the monitor, just for safety’s sake for half of the hour, and then, if that is all right, which I’m sure it will be,’ he reassured hastily, ‘you may go home. But next week we would like you to come for another scan.’ Getting to his feet, he waited until they stood and then walked round the desk to escort them to the door. Smiling down at her, he patted her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, all will be well, I’m sure.’
Then why say anything at all? she wondered. Searching his face as he opened the door and beckoned to a passing nurse, trying to see if there was something he wasn’t telling her, she turned to her husband. ‘Charles?’ she asked helplessly.
Taking her face between his palms, he smiled down at her. ‘Stop worrying and do as the doctor says. You go with the nurse; I’ll have a chat with him, find out what I can. Go on, I’ll come along and find you in a minute.’
Nodding, she gave the nurse a worried smile, and accompanied her along to one of the cubicles. Obediently climbing on to the bed, she lay back. What did the doctor mean, small? How small? And what did he mean about not growing? The nurse, unfortunately, didn’t speak English, and all the French Melly had ever known had flown out of her head. All she could remember was how to ask for the pen of her aunt. The damned stupid things they taught you in school. She could conceive of no situation whatsoever when anyone might need to ask for the pen of their aunt! Why couldn’t they teach you useful things? Like how to ask about small babies? Giving an agitated little sigh, she tried to relax. Getting worked up might affect the baby’s heartbeat, which would be picked up by the monitor, and then they would keep her in.
With her tummy exposed and the monitor strapped in place, Melly had nothing to do but listen to the sound of her baby’s heart and watch the numbers jump erratically on the crystal display. The nurse watched them for a moment, nodded as though satisfied, adjusted the paper strip that interpreted the numbers on to a print-out graph, gave Melly’s leg a reassuring pat and left.
Forcing herself to stay calm, she kept her eyes fixed on the numbers, willing them to stay normal. So long as the baby’s heart is beating, everything’s all right, she told herself firmly. So who cares if it’s a small baby? Small babies do fine, better sometimes than larger ones, but what did the doctor mean about its not growing as it should? Not forming properly? Is that what he meant?
Hearing Charles’s voice just outside the cubicle as he spoke to the nurse, she relaxed and sank back. Charles would make sure everything was all right.
‘You look like one of Frankenstein’s experiments,’ he commented with a grin as he pushed through the curtain.
‘It’s what I feel like. What did the doctor say?’
‘Not much more than he said to you.’ Walking to the side of the bed, he picked up her hand and held it comfortingly between his own. ‘I don’t think there’s any need to get worried,’ he said gently, ‘they’re just being careful.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed gratefully. ‘But you would tell me if it was anything—’
‘I promise. Now—’
‘But did you ask him what he meant by the baby’s not growing? Supposing it’s not—’
‘Melly!’ he interrupted. ‘Everything’s going to be fine! Now, tell me what all this gadgetry is for.’
‘You know what it’s for! You were here when they explained it all last time.’
‘I’ve forgotten,’ he said blandly.
She knew he hadn’t, but talking would take her mind off her worries, and if Charles wasn’t concerned... ‘The display on the left is the baby’s heartbeat, the one on the right is mine.’
‘And the print-out is confirmation that all is OK,’ he said confidently. Patting her hand, he released it and walked round to stare at the paper being spewed from the machine.
‘It looks very erratic,’ she ventured nervously.
‘So would you be if you were a tiny baby and that cold disc was plonked right on top of you,’ he said with a smile as he indicated the plate attached to her stomach. ‘Stop worrying!’
‘Yes. I just wish—’
‘That the doctor wouldn’t go around scaremongering!’ he said forcefully. ‘I know! Damned fool!’
Diverted, she asked curiously, ‘Did you tell him so?’
‘Of course,’ he retorted with an aloof certainty that he would always be listened to.
‘What did he say?’
Turning to look at her, he suddenly relaxed and smiled. Spreading his hands and shrugging his shoulders, presumably as the doctor had done, he parodied, “M’sieu, I am devastated. It was not my wish to concern your lovely wife! It is only that the most current policy is to explain all to the new mother-to-be! Women insist on it!” He then said something that sounded like “Pshaw”, and gave a long discourse on how things have changed and that everything was much better in the old days. And if he doesn’t very speedily revert to the “old ways”,’ he disparaged arrogantly, ‘and give you the care and attention I think you should have, he will very speedily find himself being replaced!’
And that, she knew, was not an idle threat, and she doubted the doctor would make the mistake of underestimating him again. Before their marriage, and from what she knew of him, she had always assumed that Charles didn’t get annoyed, or involved, not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t want to. She had thought that he liked life to be smooth and without aggravation. And maybe he did, but that didn’t prevent him arrogantly overruling anyone if he thought the occasion demanded it. And such was his standing in the community, and the awe in which people seemed to hold him, that he invariably got his way. That had surprised her, perhaps because in Beckford he was generally regarded as a lightweight. Kind, charming, but without depth; but that was very far from the truth, as she had very speedily discovered. So, either he had changed radically over the years, or he had always been like it and she had just never seen it. From feeling youthful devotion, which she now knew had been based in fantasy, she had grown to love him with an intensity that frightened her. And if he had truly been a lightweight she doubted now that her love would have survived. Without her realising it, perhaps, she too had grown up.
With a thoughtful frown she lay back again and watched as he prowled round the small room, picking up literature, glancing through it, grimacing comically and replacing it in the rack. Always fearful of his becoming bored, or irritated, and therefore marring the smooth life she was trying to build for them both, she persuaded softly, ‘Why don’t you go and get a cup of coffee?’
‘Hm?’ Glancing round at her, he only slowly registered what she had said, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Walking across to her, he reproved gently, ‘It’s from a machine, Melly. And if you had ever tasted it you would not wish it on your worst enemy, let alone me!’
Laughing, she held her hand out to him. ‘Thank you for coming with me today.’
‘And what else should I do?’ he asked gently as he came to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘You’re my wife, and,’ placing one large palm gently on the part of her stomach that wasn’t covered by the monitor, he continued, ‘this is my baby. Of course I would come. I wonder what it is? Lauren, or Laurent?’
She had asked, when they were first married, if he would like the baby to be named after his friend who had died. Lauren if it was a girl, and Laurent if it was a boy. He had seemed almost overwhelmed. Smiling at him, she teased, ‘So long as it isn’t one of each.’
‘Oh, hell. No, it would have shown up on the scan—wouldn’t it?’
‘Probably,’ she comforted. She didn’t care what it was, or how many it was, so long as everything was all right.
Turning back to watch the monitor, he continued thoughtfully, ‘I read somewhere that, if the heartbeat stays under forty, it’s a boy. Over, it’s a girl.’ With a wide smile he watched the monitor jump from thirty-eight to fifty and then back down to thirty-six. ‘Perhaps it hasn’t made up its mind yet,’ he commented humorously. ‘It doesn’t seem to stay either above or below.’
‘It had better—’ Breaking off as the nurse came in, Melly carefully watched her face as she stopped the machine and tore off the graph.
Turning, she gave Melly a wide smile. ‘Is OK,’ she said triumphantly. Whether for her English, or the graph, Melly wasn’t sure, but she didn’t miss the flirtatious glance she gave Charles.
He asked her something in French, and the nurse replied, and, to Melly’s heightened imagination, seemed to linger over what she wanted to say. It was Charles who broke the contact by standing and saying something very softly to the young nurse. She blushed scarlet and hastily unstrapped Melly from the machine.
Charles rearranged her maternity dress over her bulge and helped her to her feet. ‘We can go home. All, as the nurse said, is OK. You are to come back next Wednesday.’
Hitching her dress into a more comfortable position and collecting her bag, she asked quietly, ‘What did you say to make the nurse blush?’
Bending his head to drop a light kiss on her hair, he said softly, ‘I told her to behave herself, that I was a happily married man.’
And are you? she wanted to ask as they walked out to his car. Are you happy? Or are you just acting out a role? That of a devoted husband and father-to-be? You were the one who settled for the crumbs, she told herself with an inward sigh; don’t complain now that they aren’t enough.
* * *
‘Come on, upstairs,’ he insisted when they got home, ‘the doctor said you were to rest. And we’ll stay in this evening,’ he added as he helped her on to the bed.
‘No,’ she put in softly. ‘We’ll go out, as planned. It’s only a dinner party, not standing around or anything, and it will help take my mind off things. if I stay in I’ll only lie and worry.’
Staring down at her for a moment, he frowned, then finally nodded. ‘All right, but only for a little while. We won’t stay late.’ Slipping off her shoes, he pulled the quilt across her and tucked it warmly at her side. Perching on the edge of the bed, he smoothed her unruly hair back with a gentle hand. ‘Get some sleep. I’ll give you a knock about seven.’
‘All right—and Charles?’ she called softly as he got up and walked to the door. ‘Thank you.’
‘Nothing to thank me for, Melly,’ he denied rather sombrely. ‘Nothing at all.’
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